


❅ ❄ ❅ l'expiation ❅ ❄ ❅

by ElwritesFanworks



Category: Until Dawn (Video Game)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awkward Conversations, Awkward Sexual Situations, Being Walked In On, Blood and Injury, Cabins, Canada, Canonical Character Death, Disturbing Themes, Doctor/Patient, Domestic Fluff, Driving, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Forests, French Canada, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Headcanon, Holding Hands, Hugs, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Insomnia, Invasion of Privacy, M/M, Masculinity, Masturbation, Memories, Nightmares, Not Beta Read, Older Man/Younger Man, Panic Attacks, Phobias, Photographs, Post-Game(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Slash, Psychological Trauma, Psychologists & Psychiatrists, Québec, Rare Pairings, Sexual Dysfunction, Slash, Slow Burn, Snow and Ice, Spoilers, Survivor Guilt, Texting, Therapy, Trauma, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Urination, Vomiting, Winter, accidentally punching someone in the face, dudes peeing by the side of the road, fear wetting, miserable!Mike, missing fingers!Mike
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-11
Updated: 2017-06-14
Packaged: 2018-04-20 04:32:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4773674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElwritesFanworks/pseuds/ElwritesFanworks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>~*~*SPOILERS WITHIN*~*~</p><p>Post-game AU where everyone but Jess and Josh survives. </p><p>Mike feels responsible for both deaths, has dropped out of college, is drinking heavily, and generally not coping. Chris remembers a doctor who was trying to help Josh and makes Mike seek help. This story follows Mike and Dr. Hill as they go North, and Mike faces the Canadian wilderness for the first time since that infamous trip to Blackwood Pines. As he works through his trauma, he realizes that he's not the only one who feels guilt for what happened, and the good doctor is striving to atone...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> What even is this pairing?
> 
> I was thinking about how Mike and Dr. Hill are the two sexiest characters in this game, to me anyway, and somehow that turned into this... thing. Rather than just write impossible sex with no context, I decided to give a context to this. How COULD Mike and Dr. Hill end up meeting, let alone homosexing it up? (As with seemingly everything I write lately, the answer, apparently, is by going to Quebec.)
> 
> I suppose this constitutes a crack pairing, but I'm treating it seriously. Well. Seriously-ish. As seriously as one can take a pairing like this.
> 
> Also: more tags will come. More headcanons, too.
> 
> Also, the song referenced is, of course 'Hey hey hey (It's gonna be okay)' by Stephaniesid AKA Jess's favorite song according to the wiki/the one that plays in the game. The wiki is law on details unless otherwise stated/unless headcanons (which will be identified.)
> 
> Also, any typos etc. are my fault alone - I am not writing with a beta. If you see any, let me know AND i'LL FIX THEM.

* * *

            

The view of the St. Lawrence river out of the window on the passenger side was a far cry from the mountains of Alberta, but the sight of that dark water stretching off in both directions, of those white-capped trees, bending under the weight of winter ice, had Mike’s hands tightening reflexively in the pockets of his hoodie. His thumb rubbed over the space where his fingers used to be – a nervous habit that had become an easy tell. It was unmistakable, even concealed in the pocket of his sweater, and Mike felt the eyes on him even before he turned his head and met the doctor’s gaze.

            “I’m fine,” he said, sounding like a broken record.

_“Chris, I said I’m fine!”_

_“You’re not fine – you’re drunk. Again. You promised you’d cut down.”_

_“I did cut down!”_

_“It’s 9 am and you’re wasted! You can’t be my Best Man if this is how it’s gonna be.”_

_“Chris –”_

_“I’m serious, Mike. Ash and I agree… Sam agrees...you need help. There’s this doctor… I made an appointment for you for this Friday –”_

_“No way, no **fuckin’**  way! I don’t need some dick in a white coat to tell me I made everything up –”_

_“He won’t! This guy has a stake in this, okay? He knew… he knew Josh…”_

            Mike had gotten used to Dr. Hill’s silences. At first it had unnerved him – a shrink who didn’t fill every spare moment with psychobabble – but lately he’d come to appreciate the man’s patience. Of course, Mike wasn’t fine – they both knew it – and Dr. Hill could’ve been patronizing, if he wanted to be, but he was never anything but civil, restrained, polite. Each time Mike stumbled, the psychiatrist just furrowed his brow and waited, leaving the door open indefinitely for the conversation he knew would eventually follow.

            “I just… maybe it’s too soon.”

            Mike fiddled with the radio, still awkward where this ‘sharing his feelings’ crap was concerned. It wasn’t something that had ever come easily to him. Until that fateful trip two years before, it wasn’t a skill he ever thought he’d need.

            “Do you want to be told it is okay to go home?”

            The question rumbled out of the older man as he drummed his fingers softly, steadily, on the steering wheel, eyes once again on the road. Mike shook his head and stopped moving the dial, leaving the radio stuck on a random station. Easy-listening French music had not been his first choice, but it was a distraction, nonetheless.

            “I don’t wanna quit,” he declared firmly. “This isn’t…”

_College? Your job? Your last three girlfriends?_

            “This isn’t gonna beat me.”

            A lump passed by the window, half-buried in snow by the roadside. A raccoon. From the look of the red-tinted ice it was sitting on, it had met with a bad end – somebody’s bumper. The visual just lasted a second, but that was enough to get bile rising in Mike’s throat.

            Dr. Hill coughed once, a sharp, rough sound.

            “Would it matter, if you thought you could be afraid without it reflecting badly on you? On your… manhood?”

            Mike cursed the blush that heated the back of his neck. He still didn’t know what to say when the shrink said stuff like that. It was too close to the truth, and frankly, embarrassing.

            “There’s no shame in being concerned with your masculinity,” Dr. Hill continued evenly. “But you must know that your experiences do not make you weak.”

            Mike stared at the crumpled brown paper sleeve that once held the doctor's ‘turkey sausage and egg’ breakfast sandwich, and that, presently, lay neatly folded, next to the car’s front USB port. The younger man’s own truck stop refuse was wadded up into a ball, wedged into the now-empty Tim Hortons coffee cup he’d picked up near the border.

            The coffee was catching up to him, or maybe it was the nerves. Regardless, Mike shivered and pressed his thighs together slightly, toes curling in his boots.

            “How far are we?” he asked. “From this cabin?”

            “Forty-five minutes, give or take. Nature is calling, heh?”

            The older man sighed softly and pulled the car over to the shoulder. Mike had his seat-belt unbuckled and his parka on, and was out the door, his back to the car, his hands on his zipper, before he realized there was no longer anything between himself and the trees.

            Fear hardened like ice in his gut. His hands shook and he struggled to open his jeans.

             _Don’t think about it. Don’t look at the trees. Don’t think about it._

            It took a while to get started but eventually physical need outweighed anxiety. Yellow splattered the snow.

            Some distance to his right, Mike heard the rustle of clothing and a drawn out exhale of breath hissing through clenched teeth as he was joined in release. He shook himself off and struggled to control his trembling fingers long enough to do up his pants.

            Dr. Hill was already back in the car by the time Mike zipped up and settled into the passenger seat.

            “There is hand sanitizer in glove compartment,” the psychiatrist said. Mike nodded and retrieved the bottle. If he had been on his own, in his apartment or back at the work site, he’d have left his hands as they were, but Dr. Hill was a neat, sterile kind of guy, and so long as they were to be in close quarters, Mike figured he was expected to make the effort. He squeezed a clear dollop onto his palm and worked it into the skin, over his calluses, along his scar, between his fingers.

            “D’you want a squirt?” he asked, and supplied one when the doctor wordlessly stuck out his hand.

            They drove on in silence. Ten, twenty, thirty minutes passed in peaceful quiet and slowly, in increments, Mike’s hands went limp. This was Quebec, he reminded himself. It was not Alberta, it was not Blackwood Mountain… it was not the same. Everything would be okay.

            The song on the radio faded out to an announcer with a low, gentle voice, who murmured something soothing in French. Mike was feeling it until the next track played, and suddenly the opening bars of that damn, haunting melody were building in the car like blood welling up in a wound, like mustard gas filling up a trench and Mike was choking, paralyzed with horror.

**_Sometimes I hit the wall and I fall and I can't stand up_ **

**_And somebody says ‘Hey hey hey… it's gonna be ok.’_ **

 

            He’d forgotten the song, but when it played, he was back there, rolling in the snow with Jess under him, kissing and laughing and so stupid – _why would you be out in those woods – it’s not safe in the woods, **it’s not safe –!**_

            “Michael – Michael! Are you alright? We have arrived.”

            Mike, startled into action by the doctor’s words, hurriedly shut off the radio and nodded his head vigorously. His thumb jabbed into the meat of his hand, turning scar tissue white and bloodless.

            “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Let’s just… let’s just get the bags out of the trunk.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is absurd.

* * *

            

            Crusty snow crunched under Mike’s boots and he had to lean heavily on the door for support, knees giving out beneath him. A firm, steady hand clasped his shoulder as Dr. Hill rounded the vehicle and came to stand beside him, facing the cabin.

            “Easy, Michael. You are quite safe. Deep breaths, remember?”

            Mike nodded and shrugged off the hand. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate the doctor’s concern – he did, especially the way in which it wasn’t infantilising. No, he just wanted to get indoors as soon as possible.

            On the plus side, the cabin was, at first glance, quite pleasant. It was small and cozy, rustic old wood made modern with recent renovations. Mike noticed the satellite dish on the side of the building, as well as the mound of snow under which, he was informed, there lurked an above-ground pool.

            “Not for winter use, of course,” Dr. Hill huffed as he carried his share of the suitcases up the steps to the front door. He set them down and pressed the lock button on his key fob. When the car beeped, Mike jumped and almost dropped his luggage.

            “So tell me again whose place this is?” the younger man asked, mostly to distract himself from the uneasiness that was stealing over him.

            “It belongs to an old friend of mine. We went to graduate school together. He specialized in forensic psychology, but since his retirement he spends his time writing true crime. This is where he cloisters himself away for his creative retreats. He’d normally spend the winter here, but he owed me a favor and was good enough to let me use the place.”

            “How much does he know… does he know why I’m up here?”

            Dr. Hill squinted as he sorted through a second ring of keys – this one belonging to the aforementioned friend.

            “He only knows I am bringing a patient here, and that the patient would benefit from the opportunity to face their fears. Confidentiality applies, of course. He does not know of you, personally. The only people who know that you, specifically, are here, are you and me and anyone you may have told. Ah – here we are, at last!”

            Dr. Hill inserted the correct key into the lock and opened the front door, reaching around the frame to flick on the lights. Mike hurried to load the suitcases inside and shut and lock the door behind him before he dared to look around the living room that adjoined the entrance hall.

            “Oh… this place is nice,” he said, his voice betraying his relief. The leather couch and huge TV were sleek and classy. The walls were decorated with modular bookshelves and pictures of the cabin’s owner and his family. The man, short, white-haired, grinned from ear to ear in every photograph, glowing with pure happiness whether he was accepting a book award or standing with a young woman – presumably his daughter – at her wedding.

            The place was well lit, bright, even cheerful. It seemed more like a fancy hotel than a cabin, and yet, it was clearly lived in. There were moisture stains on the coasters, dog-eared magazines on the coffee table, and a section of baseboard that bore, in bright purple marker, the evidence of the artistic talents of the writer’s toddler grandchild.

            “Good. He left us a note,” Dr. Hill remarked, picking up the folded piece of paper from its location on the mantelpiece. He unfolded it and read it aloud, skimming over it in haste.

            “Mm hmm… welcome… hope the accommodations are satisfactory… yes… food in the kitchen… satellite television and internet… two bedrooms made up… oh ho! Well! He’s really thought of everything – he’s even prepared the sauna for our use.”

            “He has a sauna?” Mike gaped. “How rich is this guy?”

            “He makes a living,” Dr. Hill answered vaguely, his attention turning to the modern fireplace that resided beneath the mantelpiece.

            The fireplace lit with a remote control, Mike learned – in fact, most everything in the cabin was automated. The lights dimmed on voice command. The two massive window screens that cover the two massive windows on the ground floor could be raised and lowered with, honest to God, a free phone app. The owner had replaced pretty much everything that could be replaced with the latest and greatest in smart technology, and Mike was legitimately impressed, anxiety notwithstanding.

            As the stress began to leave him, exhaustion set in. Mike made his excuses and retreated to the smaller of the two bedrooms to rest a little before it was time for dinner. The room was as nice as the rest of the house, with a memory foam mattress and silk sheets. Mike felt almost bad, sitting down on the luxurious bed in his day clothes, but he kicked his boots off and settled back with a sigh regardless. Fishing his phone out of his pocket, he checked his messages.

**Sam:** _Let me know when you get in, OK? You’re not alone._

            Mike hated being coddled like this, as if he was weak, breakable, but it had been long enough since Blackwood Pines that he had come to accept that he needed some of the help, even if he resented it, and resisted from time to time. Sam had been good to him since… everything that happened. Not in the way Chris and Ashely were – operating like a unit, inviting him over for dinner only to scrutinize the state of his clothes and ask him when he planned on going back to school. Sam invited him out to the little urban dog park near her condo and let him play with her golden retriever until he forgot about the bad times, just for a while. She went out for sushi with him. She didn’t laugh when he suggested they go to a newly-opened cat café. She, on occasion, came to whatever sketchy bar he’d collapsed in and helped him to get home. All that in mind, Mike texted back. Sam didn’t deserve to be kept hanging, worrying about him.

 **Mike:**   _im good. doc and i got in 10 min ago +/-._  
_hows trooper? hed luv it here. space 2 run. pat him 4 me._

            He wished that the dog was with him, even though it’d only be another thing for him to be stressed about. He still wondered what happened to that wolf that he’d befriend up on the mount–

_Don’t think about that._

            He looked down at the phone in his hands.

 

 _I wonder if my fingers got eaten,_ he thought, and immediately shuddered in disgust. He’d only meant by animals – bugs or rats or something – but the memory conjured up those monstrous terrors, those horrible, jagged teeth, those elongated limbs. It made him gag. He staggered to his feet, cheeks bulging, and only just made it to the adjacent bathroom before he hurled in the sink.

            His fingers were clumsy as he opened the taps and washed the evidence away. Even with it gone, the memory marked him, the smell of vomit clinging to his breath. He looked at himself in the mirror and could picture the scratches and bruises, the blood spatter, all that had long since gone from his face.

_It was a mistake to come here. I’m not ready. I want to go home._

            “Michael, how is it going in there. Is anything wrong?”

            Dr. Hill was knocking on the bathroom door, his voice raised in concern. Mike swallowed the second wave of vomit that threatened to spill forth.

            “Nothing - I'm good,” he croaked. “I’m good.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Made some minor edits to the earlier chapters and decided to switch to past tense. It's easier for me to write. I've fixed the earlier chapters to match.
> 
> This chapter is quite short, but I think the next one will (hopefully) be a little meatier.

* * *

_“So what are the rules for this, anyway?  
You and the doctor are just going to hang out in the woods?”_

            Sam’s tone had been light, but her face had betrayed her concern. She’d bent over to wrestle the blue plastic Frisbee out of Trooper’s mouth, and, with a flick of the wrist, sent it flying. As the dog bounded off, wagging, barking, she turned her head. She looked… haunted. Mike had his back to the sun, and with Sam facing him, she had to squint to make out his features. The evening light made her hair glow gold, and she looked kind of like an angel, and kind of like Jess.

            Immediately after the Blackwood ordeal, Mike and Sam had circled each other for a period of about a month, craving comfort, but he hadn’t taken the bait and the moment had finally passed. Sam was a great girl, and he still wondered sometimes if he was a fool not to act on the impulse to get with her. The old Mike would’ve staked his claim, no questions asked, and the old Sam… well, she wouldn’t have offered if she hadn’t been serious.

            Their old selves might as well have been strangers. The mountain had changed them both.

_Let it go, man. It wasn’t meant to be._

            Sitting on the sofa, listening to the doctor puttering around in the kitchen, Mike felt his phone buzz in his pocket. He fished it out and grinned at the photo that awaited him. Trooper, asleep, mouth hanging open, his big tongue lolling out. He looked like a big idiot. Sam had written ‘bet he’s dreaming of you,’ on the picture. Mike snorted, shaking his head.

            When Dr. Hill appeared in the living room a few minutes later, Mike was still grinning fondly at the device in his hands.

            “Happy news?”

            The man’s words startled Mike out of his thoughts and he flinched, turning too quickly to face him, cracking his neck. Dr. Hill’s face was unreadable as he stood in the entrance to the living room, seemingly oblivious to how ridiculous he looked, still in his shirt and tie, with a Christmas-patterned apron round his waist. It was meant to be worn by a much shorter man, and looked plain goofy on his larger frame.

            “Oh… it’s nothing. Just… Sam’s dog.”

            Mike lifted the phone up and Dr. Hill’s lips quirked into a smile.

            “Ah, the famous Trooper. He looks as nice as you've said. I came to tell you dinner is ready, in as much as boxed noodles and cheese are dinner. I expect you are hungry?”

            Mike nodded, hoping his guilt didn’t show on his face. He’d lied about throwing up – it wasn’t worth worrying anybody about. He knew that Dr. Hill would only make him talk about it, and Mike really didn’t feel like talking. Not about that part of the nightmare.

            He’d never been able to explain it. There was no way to tell the truth, not if you wanted people to think you were still sane. Wendigos were the stuff of myths, scary movies and campfire stories. No one would believe him, if he talked about what lurked in the Blackwood Mines, not even Dr. Hill.

            Mike was sure that the doctor could tell he was hiding something, but so far, he hadn’t been asked about it. The dishonesty wore him down, though, and the wondering. Now that they were alone together in a cabin, rather than sitting in Dr. Hill’s office for an hour-long session, it would only be a matter of time before Dr. Hill would try to get him to talk.

            The cheesy noodles went down easy enough – Mike was hungry, after all. Dutifully, he helped clean up, scraping uneaten noodles out of Dr. Hill’s bowl and into the trash, loading the fancy-ass dishwasher.

            “Not a fan of processed food?” he asked to break the silence. The older man shrugged.

            “Hmm. Not my favorite. You seemed to like it.”

            Mike laughed.

            “Yeah, well, you can blame that on coll – uh. On college.”

            Sobering, he fell silent, staring at the dishes in his hands.

            “I know I should go back,” he muttered. “It’s stupid… after this trip, I swear, I’ll –”

            “Don’t worry about it.”

            Mike furrowed his brow, confused.

            “What I mean to say is do not worry about it tonight. It is enough that you are here. I know this has not been easy for you. Rest. Give yourself the evening off.”

            Mike didn’t know what to say to that. True to form, Dr. Hill didn’t hold that against him.


	4. Chapter 4

* * *

            Mike sat on the sofa, a mug of cocoa cupped in his hands. As he sat, he pondered the strangeness of the situation. Dr. Hill sat beside him, sipping herbal tea with calculated precision. The dude was still in his shirt and tie – he hadn’t even loosened the knot as the evening wore on. It made Mike feel on edge – like he was still being analyzed even though the doctor claimed to be off the clock.

            Mike had found some MMA on TV, and he watched with moderate interest as the two middleweights dodged and circled and swung at each other. It had been going on like that since dinner: Mike watching the TV and Dr. Hill watching Mike. It was slowly driving the younger man crazy.

            “So… uh…  y’like this kind of stuff?”

            It was pretty clear that Dr. Hill was only tolerating the televised fight by using it as an opportunity to subtly observe his patient, but Mike was desperate to diffuse the tension that was building up in the room.

            “It has its merits, I suppose. You enjoy it?”

            “Sure, I guess. What sports _do_ you like?”

            Mike tried to imagine the older man voluntarily watching the Super Bowl and couldn’t.

            “I’ve been known to enjoy tennis… golf…” the doctor answered. “I ski, on occasion. Cross-country, primarily, though I encountered my share of slopes in my prime.”

            Mike nodded absently, watching the marshmallows in his hot chocolate dissolve into soft foam.

            “And you? do you play any sports?”

            “I have done. Dabbled. Played some in high school… and I work out, obviously.”

            “Obviously,” Dr. Hill snorted. Mike grinned sheepishly.

            “Yeah. That sounded a lot less douche-y in my head. The student body was riding my ass pretty hard in those days.”

            Dr. Hill chuckled at that.

            “Aaaaand that sounded a lot less dirty in my head. Wow. I didn’t mean like that… like student government, class president... that sort of stuff. I was busy, is what I'm saying.”

            The American middleweight had been hobbling for a while, having taken a few good blows to the head. The Canadian gave him a quick, brutal kick in the shin and the guy collapsed in pain. The fight was called, and the announcers went wild, overloading their mics and proclaiming the winner. Mike sighed and reached for the remote, channel surfing aimlessly.

            “It is… eleven fifty,” Dr. Hill remarked, pausing to quint at the nearby digital wall-clock. “I didn’t realize.”

            “You gonna turn in?” Mike asked, stopping on a station that was airing some show about border security.

            “Mm. Are you –?”

            “Uh… nah. I’m still a bit wired from all the travelling,” Mike drawled, feigning nonchalance. “Plus, this border patrol security stuff is fuckin’ riveting.”

            He stumbled a bit as he cussed, and apologized.

            “You need not censor yourself for my sake. In my profession, I assure you, I have heard it all.”

            Dr. Hill emphasized the last phrase with air quotes, which were corny as hell, but which did make Mike feel a little less embarrassed.

            “Right, okay. Yeah. Sorry, it’s just… a little weird.”

            “Could you elaborate…?”

            “Well… nothing. I dunno.”

            A knowing look passed over the doctor’s face as he took note of the embarrassment Mike was displaying.

            “Ah. I am an old man to you, and the old have no business hearing the vulgarities of the young, hmm?”

            “You’re not – you’re… kinda. Kinda old.”

            Mike laughed and shook his head.

            “Sorry. I sound like an asshole.”

            The doctor grinned, the lines around his eyes deepening.

            “Better to sound like an asshole than to be an asshole, no? Now, I am going to bed. If you need anything during the night, don’t hesitate to wake me.”

            “Okay, thanks.”

            “And Michael? Try to get some sleep, heh? We have a big day tomorrow.”

            “We do?”

            “Therapy does not work by osmosis. I’ve brought some exercises along.”

            “Oh. Right.”

            Mike fingered a chip in the handle of his mug.

            “Well, goodnight,” he said lamely. “See you in the morning.”

            Dr. Hill nodded, smiling.

            “Goodnight, Michael.”

            With that, the older man turned and left. Mike sighed and set his mug down on a coaster, lying down on the couch with a groan.

            The truth of it was that Mike was beat – he would’ve loved to follow the doc’s example and fall into a dead sleep, but there was no chance of it. Mike didn’t get sleep so much as he got a private nightly screening of the shit that went down on the mountains.

            Josh had been his fault.

            Jess had been… fuck.

            This was the kind of shit that could drive a person crazy. Josh went completely bonkers over the loss of his sisters. Mike watched a border guard intercept a package of baby formula which, it turned out, was actually smuggled heroin, and marveled at the fact that he was still even remotely sane.

            His phone was in his hands before he knew what he was doing, and he’d almost finished typing a text to Sam before he thought better of it, his thumb hovering over the send button. She would be trying to sleep – probably had work in the morning. If she’d managed to drift off, he didn’t dare disturb her – sleep was pretty much sacred to them both, rare as it was. Chewing his lip, Mike debated texting Chris or Ashley, but they’d probably be asleep too. He and Matt barely kept in touch – Emily had seen to that, driving one hell of a wedge between them, bitter as she was. There was no one else to call.

 _I need other friends,_ Mike observed. _Preferably people who haven’t been in close proximity to cannibals. Yeah. Those kind of people._

            He huffed at his own weak attempt at humor, shifting his position in an effort to get comfortable without getting so comfortable as to be in danger of falling sleep.

_Now would be right about when I’d jerk off._

            The thought came to him unexpectedly – well, as unexpectedly as anything sexual ever occurred to a man in his twenties. It stung. That was another thing that didn’t happen much anymore. The exhaustion, the memories, the guilt… all of it tended to crowd in on intimate moments. Mike couldn’t bring himself to go to bed with a girl – not when every half-naked chick he saw reminded him of Jess being pulled through that window. The last few chicks he’d dated had left his clutches as pure and un-deflowered… flowered?... as when they’d entered it. Not that they’d probably been virgins, but anyway. Tangent. Even porn didn’t do much – most of the girls were too much like she had been – sexy, flirty, kind of shy.

            “Fuck,” Mike stated to the empty room, switching the TV off. He got up off the couch and padded over to one of the huge windows. It was masochistic of him – the thought of that winter view was enough to turn his stomach – yet he forced himself to look out at the dark blobs of forest, the huge pale orb that hung in the sky.

            “Come on, man. Don’t be a fucking bitch,” he muttered, anger burning in his gut. Frustration made him clench his fists and he bit the inside of his cheek to keep his instincts in check as he was seized by a powerful urge to punch the nearest wall.

            This wasn’t him. Mike Monroe wasn’t a pussy. He was fun, put-together, a natural winner. He wasn’t mopey and pathetic.

             _At least, I didn't used to be._

            Back to the TV, back to the couch. Mike flipped through the channels until he saw the opening credits of a low-budget horror movie starting up. It looked shitty, but Mike needed that.

            Of course the main girl was the only one not dumb as a post. He watched as she and her friends ran through their suburban home in terror. One of them broke a heel and limped behind – the killer, some Michael Myers rip-off, slow-walked over to her and somehow caught up, using a screwdriver to put out her eye.

_**Cut back to the other girls and the main girl’s love interest.**_

_**Girl 1:** Ohmigosh, where’s Mandy?_

_**Girl 2:** (teeth chattering) Mandy… got screwed._

            Mike rolled his eyes.

_**Guy:** It’s not safe here. Come on – maybe we can lose him in the woods!_

            “Fantastic. Mike, exit stage left.”  
  
            Mike turned the TV off and just lay on the couch in the dark, eyes reflecting the white glow of the winter moon.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more vomiting in this chapter (sorry) plus backstory for Dr. Hill!

* * *

            Dr. Hill waited until Mike woke up to tell him he was leaving.

            “Only for an hour or two. I have things to get in town,” he explained.

            Mike didn’t know what to say to that. He felt… abandoned. Betrayed. Angry, for sure.

            He didn’t tell Dr. Hill.

            “Sure, man. You do what you need to do. I’ll just hang out. Explore this place.”

            “You’re sure? I really would rather not leave you. You can come with me, if you like.”

            “Nah. Go on. I’ll be fine.”

            It took Dr. Hill thirty minutes to shovel the driveway and scrape the car. When he finally pulled off onto the road, Mike sighed in relief. He’d been waffling on agreeing to join the doctor last minute, but his pride had won out in the end.

            “And why is that?” he asked aloud. “We both know why we’re here.”

            Then again, Mike wasn’t the only one too proud for his own good. He’d offered to shovel the driveway – it was a job he was suited for – more so than Dr. Hill was, anyway. But the doctor had refused the help. Oh, he’d done so politely. But all the same, he’d done it, and shovelled alone, scraped alone. He drove off alone.

            “And he tells me that I’ve put walls up,” Mike snorted, shaking his head. “Shit.”

            The house was fun to explore, at least. It was an oasis in the creepy frozen hell that surrounded it. Mike found a whole bunch of cool stuff. A deck of cards with dogs in bomber jackets and aviator goggles on them. A liquor cabinet and a bunch of very expensive looking cigars. A lighter in the shape of a naked woman. A pool table.

            “This guy has good taste,” Mike noted as he patrolled the man’s study, eyeing the paperweight on his desk: a metal sculpture of a Russian wolfhound. It looked identical to the one in the small, round photo frame that perched at the edge of the desk. Mike picked it up and examined it. There was the true-crime writer, posing with a woman Mike guessed was his wife, standing beside a wolfhound and holding a blue ribbon. The photo had been labelled.

**_Wings of Glory Freespirit MacTavish – First in Group, 2014_ **

            “Huh. That dog has more of a life than I do.”

            Mike wandered over to the office bookshelf and quickly saw that the writer kept his own books in a place of honor. Mike read off the title of the thickest one.

            “Little Angels, Broken Wings: The Sinister Child Pageant Killer.”

            He opened the book to the acknowledgements, skimming the usual ‘wife, kids, blah blah blah’ but pausing when he noticed a familiar name.

 _And to my old friend, Dr. Alan “Al” Hill,_  
for the countless little gestures, for the patience, and for always being  
a true friend.

-          _Dave_

            “I guess these guys go way back,” Mike murmured, his interest piqued. “Dr. Hill doesn’t seem like much of an ‘Al.’”

            With the book tucked under his arm, he wandered the house some more, until he came to the master bedroom. It was as nice as the rest of the house, and Mike was comfortable with how he’d satisfied his curiosity, until he noticed a bunch of photo albums, neatly arranged by year.

            “It’s not totally amoral of me to snoop, right? I mean, anybody would – it’s not like he’s hiding these things. He’d probably show me them himself if he was here.”

            Mike still felt a twinge of guilt as he read through the titles. The albums went back a decade at least, with some on the far left being from much earlier, and it was one of the older ones that caught his eye.

1977: SWITZERLAND TRIP, SABINA, SIME & AL

            “Could that … no way… it couldn’t be…”

            But it was. The book was in his hands, open, before Mike could think twice and there, sure enough, was a faded old photograph of a much younger, longer-haired Dr. Hill.

            He was standing by what looked to be a chalet, smiling, shoulder to shoulder with a man Mike recognized as an equally youthful Dave. Dave had his arms around a woman – Sabina. It was an old photo but Mike couldn’t help but acknowledge the woman was attractive. She was all curves and long, fair hair. Dave seemed pleased with her, anyway.

            On Dr. Hill’s other side was, by default, Sime. He was dark-haired, with a hideous ‘70s moustache. He might’ve been good looking without it, but it was hard to say.

            Mike sat down on the floor and started flipping through the album.

            Honestly, the photos made him feel a bit sick – the four, happy friends reminded him so much of how things used to be, before Beth and Hannah and… everything else. Maybe that was why he couldn’t bring himself to stop looking.

            More photos. They were at some kind of a hot spring now. Sabina was topless, revealing perfect, beautiful tits.

            “She’s probably really old and gross now,” Mike reminded himself, and was glad the breasts had been documented before they were lost to the mists of time.

            There was Dave – and holy shit, was that guy hairy. Mike had never seen someone so hairy – and he wasn’t exactly baby-smooth himself. Dave was laughing and trying to make a rude gesture at Sabina’s rack, while she shrieked, grinning wildly, slapping his hands away, her own a playful blur.

            Mike turned the page, and his eyes widened.

            The next shot was taken in some hotel room. There was Mr. Ugly-Moustache, conked out on the sofa, a beer loosely gripped in his hand. Curled up next to him, head resting on turtleneck-ensconced shoulder, was Dr. Hill. He looked… peaceful.

            The photo had a... vibe to it. A ‘two dudes shouldn’t cuddle like that, even if they are best friends,’ vibe.

            Mike flipped to the next page with renewed interest.

            More Sabina and Dave, looking like a couple. At the chalet. In some little town.

            And then, more Moustache and Hill, looking the same. At a record store. At a bar.

            Puzzle pieces were arranging themselves in Mike’s head, but the last one refused to fall into place, refused to reveal the truth, until he flipped the page to one that made his breath catch in his throat.

            It was of Sabina, sitting, naked, on a sofa, smoking a joint and smiling up at the camera, all loose-limbs and warm glances. Mike was momentarily distracted by her thick, blonde bush, so much so that he almost missed what could just be seen in the corner of the frame, half in shadow, up against a doorway. Two people, kissing.

            It was too faded and blurry to make out who for sure, but Dave must’ve been taking photos of Sabina, so that only left two people it could be.

            Mike shut the album with a start, his cheeks burning, his heart pounding in his chest. He glanced up at the doorway to make sure that, by some bizarre stroke of fate, Dr. Hill wasn’t standing there watching him.

            “Holy shit.”

            He opened it again. Turned the page. There was Dr. Hill, squinting at the camera, standing on a mountain in a ski-jacket, his gloved hand discretely, but clearly, holding that of Mr. Moustache.

            There was a noise downstairs and Mike rose in immediate and sudden terror. No amount of rationalization could convince him that that wasn’t some hinterland hell-creature coming to get him.

            He ran downstairs, eyes wide and panicked and shouted out a warning.

            “WHO’S THERE?” he barked. Dr. Hill jumped and dropped one of the bags of groceries he was carrying.

            “Oh, shit – let me get that!”

            Mike hurried the rest of the way to the door and scooped up the fallen cans and vegetables. A jar of jam had shattered, leaving a gruesome red stain on the floor.

            Mike froze, eyes fixed on the spreading liquid, groceries falling from his now-limp fingers.

            “Michael? It is just jam, yes? Get a cloth from the kitchen, there you go.”

            Mike obeyed numbly, leaving, returning, dish rag in hand.

            The older man caught his wrist.

            “You are jumpy, heh? I should have brought you with me after –”

            “Let go of my hand, man.”

            It was just pride that made Mike yank his arm away. Just pride. Stupidity. He wasn’t one of those guys who… he wasn’t prejudiced.  It wasn’t like that.

            “Michael?” the man’s voice had a sterner edge to it.

            “My name is Mike. Dunno why that’s so hard for you.”

            The older man’s eyes narrowed.

            “What happened while I was gone?”

            “Just fucking leave it, alright? God damn, this trip was a bad idea!” Mike snapped, throwing the dish rag. It struck the doctor in the chest and flopped down onto the floor, landing in the jam. Soaking up the red.

            It was too much.

            Mike shuddered, sagged forwards, and emptied his stomach over the doctor’s shoes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the 70s, man...


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit I'm not dead and I'm still writing this. Wow.
> 
> More headcanons for you. Also, more updates pending, soon. (Hopefully.)  
> I have the whole fic planned in bullet points so it's just a question of writing the damn thing.

* * *

            Dinner that night is a tense affair. Not the food – the food was amazing. Pan-seared salmon with a side of roasted potatoes. Simple, yes, but seasoned and cooked to perfection. Each bite, sadly, was hardly enjoyable, with the awkwardness stretching between the two men, a third unwanted guest at their table.

            When it became clear that Dr. Hill wasn’t going to give an inch, Mike sighed and set down his fork with a clatter.

            “Are you finished?” the doctor asked neutrally. Mike ignored him.

            “Look, I’m not an asshole, alright?” he declared, as much to assuage his own fears as to make a point to the psychiatrist. “Yesterday, we – we established I’m n-not an asshole. I only sound like one.”

The older man stared at him blankly, expectant.

            “I found some photos. You were in them. Switzerland, 1970s. Ring a bell?”

            If Dr. Hill knew what Mike was getting at, he gave nothing away, raising the corner of his napkin to dab at his lips.

            “I have been in Switzerland a few times,” he mused. “Usually to ski. As I told you yesterday, I was quite the proficient skier –”

            “You look like you were there for more than skiing.”

            Another blank stare.

            “Tall guy. Dark-haired. Creepy moustache.”

            The older man took a thoughtful bite of his fish, chewed and swallowed.

            “Ah,” he said at last, dispassionately. Then:

            “Are you uncomfortable with sharing your personal thoughts with a homosexual? Or is it that you suspect I will be unprofessional and take advantage of your weakened state, now that I’ve got you out here in the woods, alone?”

            Mike choked on his potatoes. He hadn’t expected Dr. Hill to just own up to it like that.

            “Well – no, I mean. I didn’t think you’d… do anything. I just… I don’t know. Whatever floats your boat… I guess. Only… I would’ve thought you’d have told me.”

            Dr. Hill cocked his head.

            “In what way is it relevant? My private life has no bearing here – our meetings are about you.”

            Mike sneered.

            “You see? That, right there. That’s the problem. You want me to trust you with stuff that I haven’t told anyone, and what do you offer in return?”

            “Your improved mental health, hopefully.”

            “I know! I just mean… look, I get that it’s not professional or whatever, you telling me about yourself, but buddying up out here in the woods ain’t exactly kosher. I feel kind of… uneasy, I guess. You’re gonna pick me apart, if you get your way, and I don’t even know if you have a favorite colour or season or anything. It’s weirding me out.”

            The doctor considered this for a while, lips pursed, before finally nodding.

            “I suppose our situation is a bit unorthodox – perhaps I do need to… how would you put it? Let my hair down?”

            Mike fidgeted, pushing the food around on his plate.

            “What would you like to know?” Dr. Hill asked calmly. Mike wasn’t sure where to start – wasn’t sure what was and what was not on the table.

            “Perhaps with your question, yes? My favourite colour is navy blue, and my favourite season is Spring. And neither of those are what you would really like to know, enh?”           

            Mike felt his face flush.

            “Was that guy in your photos like… your boyfriend?”

            “We established that, I thought. Yes, he was.”

            “Was it serious?”

            Dr. Hill took a moment to answer that.

            “As serious as it could be, at that age. How serious were you and Jess?”

            The question caught Mike off guard and he winced.

            “Uh… at the time, not… not very, I guess. I dunno. I mean, I don’t… it’s different. I… lost her.”

            Dr. Hill nodded.

            “Losing a partner can be very traumatic, even if you were not, initially, looking at a long-term romance.”

            Mike shrugged.

            “I guess that’s what they tell you to say, right?”

            Dr. Hill shook his head.

            “You could say I… lost Sime. Perhaps I failed him – that is more accurate, I would say. Yes. He’s still alive, as far as I know, but… he was injured, the winter of ’78. Skiing accident. He fractured his spine in two places. Quadriplegic – he could blink, and speak with some difficulty, but that was it. I was young – we hadn’t been, how do you say it – exclusive? Things were different in those days… people were freer with their affections, and yet, not everyone was so open about… friendships such as ours. It was not the sort of thing that could easily be explained – why I would be so devoted to a school friend. I stayed out of obligation, initially, but I hadn’t ever been prepared for a lifetime of nursing him. He knew it. One day he just… told me to go. I didn’t refuse.”

            Mike stared at him. The doctor looked tired, somewhat sad. Mike’s hand was moving across the table before he could stop to think about it. He placed it over the older man’s and gave his fingers a squeeze.

            “I don’t think anyone can be prepared for stuff like that,” he said. “It’s not fair.”

            Dr. Hill nodded and forced a grim smile.

            “No. That is the great paradox of youth, hmm? One’s innocence is boundless, one’s immortality unchallenged.”

            “Until it isn’t,” Mike amended. The doctor nodded.

            “Until it isn’t.”

            They sat in silence for a long time. Long enough for Mike to be aware that he was still holding the doctor’s hand – and that the time to pull away and still save face was behind them. Keeping his hand there was uncomfortable, but removing it now would only draw more attention to its presence. He agonized, privately, until the older man moved, patting his knuckles in a firm, almost paternal gesture.

            “You should take a rest. I will see to the dishes.”

            Mike’s protests died in his throat, and he scurried off, ashamed of his own eagerness to get away.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short but necessary plot chapter.

* * *

            The next morning, Mike came downstairs to find a surprise. The young man was expecting therapy of the usual variety – sitting across from one another – talking shit out. He was _not_ expecting to come to breakfast and see two pairs of snowshoes sitting by the door.

            “Snowshoes, doc?”

            “Mm. A therapeutic exercise. The two of us are going to go for a little stroll outside. Nothing drastic – only as far as you feel comfortable.”

            “And… if I don’t… feel comfortable?”

            “We will go as far as we can, and try again tomorrow. The woods are safe here, Michael. You have my word – I would not endanger a patient.”

            Something flickered in the doctor’s eyes as he said that –  a flash of visible emotion different from his usual bemusement. Mike grimaced, thinking of Josh. _Yeah. Not intentionally._

            Mike had never snowshoed before. His background in winter sports was more of the ‘skating, snowboarding and seducing ski bunnies’ variety. Attaching the huge, ungainly things to his feet was made even more difficult by his missing fingers, and he wound up swearing and throwing the snowshoes down in frustration.

            “Would you like me to –?”

            Mike looked up, alarmed, before his brain put two and two together.

            “Right. Uh… yeah, thanks.”

            Dr. Hill adjusted his slacks before kneeling with a grunt and a clicking of joints. Mike stuck his foot out and tried to ignore how weird it was to look down and see the thinning hair on the top of the doctor’s head. It was an awkward position – surely, he must’ve known how awkward – but if he did, the older man gave no indication. Perfectly professional, he fixed one snowshoe, then the other, and then slipped on his own.

            “Right,” he said with his trademarked dorky smile. “Away we go.”

            Two feet into the yard and Mike was already uneasy. Each step felt like a betrayal of his survival instinct. Danger lurked in those trees – he knew it, even as he realized it was impossible. This _wasn’t Blackwood._ But then… if horrors were possible in one Canadian hinterland, what would stop them from being here too?

            “I would like you to walk ahead of me. Do you think you can do that?”

            Fuck. What would be worse? Being the first one killed, or having to watch the doctor get torn apart?

            “Uh… sure. I can…”

            Mike stumbled forward, ungainly, off-balance in the snowshoes.

            They were half-way across the clearing, now. The trees were a thick, black wall, looming above them. Mike faltered, hit by a sudden wave of dizziness. Everything felt… wrong. Profoundly, fundamentally wrong.

            Something snapped in the bushes – a twig. There was something there, lurking. Watching. Mike flinched, reeling at the sound. Something touched his shoulder and he turned with a shout, swinging his fist before he could think.

            Blood. Blood on the snow. Red on white – red on his hands – fucking red everywhere –

            “Michael – Michael – _fuck!”_

            Mike scrambled backwards, twisting his ankle and falling to his knees, crab walking backwards, eyes open but blind with fear. He moved quickly, recklessly, until his back met the rough bark of a tree. He whirled around again, screaming.

            Hands were on him again – on his face this time – and it took him some time to realize they weren’t hurting him. A voice – accented, familiar.

            “Easy – easy! Calm… you’ll hurt yourself.”

            Slowly, Mike’s vision cleared. He swallowed hard, blinked away tears, and clung shamefully to the arms that held him. The doctor was patient with him, and more gentle than any man who’d just been decked in the face had a right to be.

            “Let’s get you away from the trees, alright?”

            "In the bushes - a noise -"

            "It was just a deer, Michael. Nothing to worry about."

            “Your nose –”

            “I’ve been punched before,” Dr. Hill said evenly. “It is understandable. I pushed you too far – I am sorry.”

            Mike nodded, but when he stood, he yelped, pain shooting through his leg.

            “Fuck,” he hissed. “I think I sprained something.”

            “There is a first aid kit in the house. We will both have need of it, heh?”

            Mike’s heart didn’t stop racing until they were back indoors. Dr. Hill helped him take off the snowshoes and helped him to the bathroom.

            “Can you clean yourself up unassisted?” he asked, and it took Mike a minute to realize what he meant. In the terror-filled moments in the yard, he had been too hyped up on adrenaline to notice he’d pissed himself.

            “Y-yeah,” he forced out shakily, too upset to be embarrassed. Mostly he just felt scared.

            Dr. Hill left to see to his nose, and Mike ran himself a bath. It was awkward, fitting his big frame in the tub, let alone with a sore ankle, but he didn’t feel steady enough on his feet to risk a shower. The last thing he needed was to slip in the tub and crack his head open.

            Once washed, Mike managed to hobble to the bathroom door, which, when opened, revealed a fresh, folded towel and a change of clothes. He dressed himself with minor difficulties and limped down the hall to the kitchen.

            The doctor stood over the sink, a bag of frozen peas on his nose. He had blood on his chin, his shirt. When he spoke, he had it staining his teeth. The sight made Mike shudder.

            “Feeling better?”

            Something in his words broke Mike’s resolve. The young man shook his head, and suddenly found himself crying harder than he’d ever cried in his life. Dr. Hill didn’t try to get him to stop, didn’t try to hold him or make him feel vulnerable. He just waited until at last, the sobs subsided, and then he patted Mike’s shoulder once, in a firm, fatherly way.

            “I think we are reaching a turning point,” he said cryptically. “I will make some tea. You should bind your ankle. When we have done these things, it will be time to talk.”

            There was no wiggle room – this was it. There was finality in those words. Mike was too worn out to fight him – too tired to speak. He only grunted and dragged himself over to the living room couch, on which the first aid kit was waiting. He took out an ace bandage and set about wrapping his foot.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> posted this late and unproofred, mostly. i'm exhausted but i wanted it done. the last plot-driven chapter before we FINALLY start getting to the slash part of the slash fic.

* * *

Mike didn’t consider himself to be a connoisseur of tea by any stretch of the imagination. He couldn’t tell you how long to brew a white tea versus a black one. He didn’t know what all went into a chai blend. He was more a coffee man – and even then, he didn’t tend to get fancy with it.

Dr. Hill presented him a cup of chamomile, brewed carefully and expertly, and sat across from him on the sofa with his own cup. He looked exhausted, and his nose was swollen and purple, but there was determination in his eyes as he prompted his patient to begin.

“I… dunno if I can tell you this. There’s… shit happened on that mountain. Bad shit – shit that isn’t in any of the files. If I tell you it’s not just me that’d get fucked up – it’s all the others – my friends – and any idiots who go to investigate.”

“This will all remain in confidence,” the older man replied evenly. Mike shrugged, staring down at his mutilated hand.

“… I’m gonna wind up committed, if I tell you this.”

Dr. Hill raised his eyebrows.

“It is as serious as that?”

Mike nodded somberly. He felt very small and very young – like he was ten and in trouble at school. He expected chastisement, but none came. He took a sip of tea. It went down surprisingly easy, soothing his anxious, churning stomach.

“Doc… have you ever heard of… wendigos?”

The man didn’t so much as blink.

“The term rings a bell… some sort of supernatural creature, I believe. Native American in origin, if I’m not mistaken.”

Mike shook his head.

“They’re... they’re not just ‘supernatural creatures. They’re…”

He averted his eyes, his throat tight.

“Hannah. Josh’s sister. She didn’t die on the mountain. She was stuck out there – hurt… starving. Beth’s body…”

He looked back at the older man searchingly.

“Hannah ate her sister. She must’ve done. Wendigos are real – they’re real, Doc. When you eat human flesh, you can… turn into one. Hannah did. She wasn’t the first – that mountain had been host to those things since before the Europeans came.”

Mike took a shaky breath.

“I… saw it. With my own eyes. We all saw it. It wasn’t a hallucination. It was real. So, you see, Doc. The woods _aren’t_ safe. Nowhere is.”

With the words finally spoken, Mike began to weep, hanging his head and sobbing until he was hoarse and his whole body ached. Dr. Hill sat in silence, waiting until he was done.

“Michael,” he said, with slow deliberation, “you cannot expect me to hear a story like this and believe it is true.”

Mike sniffed, searching his pockets for a tissue. The doctor handed him a handkerchief and kept speaking.

“It is clear, however, that you believe it to be so. Whatever trauma occurred on that mountain, this is the way your brain has made sense of it.”

“I know you think I’m making it up, or… or it’s just a hallucination,” Mike ventured, “but… I’m not. I mean – it really did happen. I know it sounds crazy, but I’m not lying to you. That is what I saw.”

Something softened in the doctor’s gaze.

“This, I believe. Something does not need to have happened for the mind to believe it. Your psyche conducts itself in a protective fashion – it defends itself from traumatic experience, reconstructs reality to explain the unexplainable. I am, quite frankly, disturbed you have been carrying this burden for so long by yourself. You are stronger than I realized. This is good. You can use this strength.”

Mike swallowed.

“You won’t commit me? Don’t think I’m… I’m crazy?”

“Crazy is not a very useful word, Michael. I think at this time, it is too early to say with certainty what is wrong exactly. You may well have hallucinated because the circumstances that night were too much to cope with. I think, given the nature of the event you’d extreme, the deaths of your friends, the exposure and injury, and the lack of a family history of mental illness, it is unreasonable to jump immediately to assuming a psychosis.”

Mike wasn’t sure what to do in the wake of that statement that he just stared into his tea, biting at the chapped skin on his lower lip.

“What I am saying, Michael, is that, while I cannot believe factually in what you are saying, I can believe you are sincere – that it is real to you. If what it takes to help you is to treat this as fact and not fiction, then I will do so.”

The words sunk in. The doctor wasn’t writing him off – wasn’t pushing him away or calling him insane for his improbable story. Mike felt his eyes spill over again, tears rolling down his face. He was exhausted. With the weight of the secret off his shoulders, he could finally feel how heavy it was to carry, all that time.

The hug came naturally – a stress reaction in the wake of such emotional intensity. Mike had hauled the older man forward by his shirtfront, and was hugging him before he realized what he was doing. He tensed the minute he noticed, and Dr. Hill let him retreat. The Swede smiled off the awkwardness, though the flash of alarm in his eyes made it clear that he was as uncomfortable Mike was about the embrace.

“Sorry –”

“No. No, don’t apologize. It is understandable, given the situation. Now, would you care to continue talking or do you feel you need a break?”

“Uh… break’d be nice, sure.”

“Good. I’ll go make us something for lunch. You should rest that leg.”

Mike nodded, feeling distinctly strange. His touch-starved body felt twitchy and wrong. He wanted the old man gone, but when it came down to it and Dr. Hill left, Mike didn’t want to be alone.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally getting into some seeeexy moments a.k.a. Dr. Hill is a human like everyone else, and men have ~needs~

* * *

             Mike was feeling antsy. Well, realistically, he was feeling antsy _and_ sorry for himself. His twisted ankle was bruised and swollen, and there was nothing for him to do but loaf around the house miserably. As if he didn’t have enough to deal with, given his anxiety over the whole situation of finally addressing the elephant in the room.

            Given that it was probably a massive red flag to have a patient insist on the existence of wendigos, Dr. Hill had taken everything surprisingly well. He had done his best to feign normalcy, had made lunch and then given Mike a worksheet, leaving him to his own devices until the reconvened for dinner. Even then, he didn’t interrogate him about the contents of the worksheet (which was about the trauma symptoms associated with remembering the events that occurred on the mountain.)

            Dinner was simple but good – the older man really could cook. Still, Mike couldn’t enjoy it. He felt like there was a judgement waiting, hanging over him. It would be after the dishes were cleaned. No. After the leftovers were put away. No. Rather than question him, the doctor simply excused himself to have a shower, leaving Mike alone.

            Bored, uncomfortable, and low-key stressed by the view of the forest through the big window, he played a match-3 game on his phone, half-watching the talk-show playing on the TV. He grew bored of it quickly, and shot Sam a text asking her how things were going. He hated to admit it, but if he didn’t check in periodically, he felt worried over his friends’ safety. No knowing where his loved ones were or if they were in danger was always hard. Mike didn’t want to smother them, come off as ‘too crazy,’ but he hated the idea of something happening to them when he couldn’t be there to… what, protect them? He was hardly mentally well enough to be relied on in that capacity. Realistically, he’d probably be more of a burden than anything, nowadays.

            Skin clammy with nervous sweat, Mike craned his neck, looking down the hall at the closed door of the bathroom. For all he knew, the Doc could be dead in there, and he’d be none the wiser. He had no doubt that Dr. Hill could handle himself but nevertheless, it left him feeling uneasy.

            Rising unsteadily to his feet, Mike limped slowly towards the door. He hesitated, and a soft noise made him tense.

            Dr. Hill had made a muffled noise of quiet distress. Mike shuddered and leaned in, listening closer. His heart was pounding so hard he could scarcely hear. He crept forward and placed a hand on the doorknob.

            Another noise – a low groan, and Mike was past the point of rational thought. He turned the knob so gently that it didn’t make a sound, and opened the door a crack. What he saw beyond it made his breath catch in his throat.

            The shower didn’t have a curtain. It had a sliding glass door, frosted for privacy. The doctor’s body was just a pink, fuzzy shape. Even still, Mike could immediately tell what was going on.

            The doctor’s arm was moving in slow, repetitive strokes, and his head was tipped back against the fogged-up glass, thinning hair smearing against it. He groaned again, a low, guttural sound.

            _Well, shit._

            Mike was aware of a few things. They dawned on him gradually.

            One, he was syncing his breathing up with the doctor’s.

            Two, he was frozen in place.

            Three, he was getting hard.

            He wasn’t totally there yet, not zero-to-sixty, but his cock was most definitely interested in what he was seeing.

            _It’s just because I haven’t gotten any in so long,_ he immediately rationalized. He felt, initially, almost betrayed by the fact that the good doctor was rubbing one out in the bathroom. The more he thought about it, however, the more he just felt… guilty. He knew nothing about this man. He didn’t know if he was single, dating… if he had someone waiting for him at home. He’d completely disrupted the guy’s life, being fucked up enough that usual therapy sessions weren’t working. He was so damaged they had to do this whole experiment – Hill had to use his vacation days to drag Mike’s sorry ass around the Canadian countryside.

            When had he even had alone time, before this? No wonder the dude was taking his brief respite to jack off. If Mike’s dick had been cooperating lately, he’d have done the same thing.

            The doctor’s arm sped up slightly, and his breath hitched. Mike’s cock gave a throb as he realized he’d just heard the other man come. Immediately, panic set in, and he recoiled, closing the door more loudly than he meant to. Loudly enough that there was no way that Dr. Hill wouldn’t know what he’d seen.

            _Shit. Shit shit shit shit!_

Anxious, Mike hobbled back to the couch, covered himself in a blanket to hide his waning erection, and faked sleep. He heard the door open and lay very still. The doctor stood in the hall for a long time before turning and padding off towards his room, wet feet slapping the floor. Mike breathed a sigh of relief, but it was short-lived.

            _How the hell would he face the old man now?_


End file.
